New Territory
by feliciacraft
Summary: Following that kiss of gratitude, Buffy leaves a battered Spike in his crypt alone to recover from Glory's torture, only to return moments later. Set in Season5, following "Intervention". (Please do not re-post elsewhere without express permission. Please do not distribute translations.)


For once, Buffy shut the door of Spike's crypt gently behind her as she left. How many times had she stormed in there, all justifiably superior and usually outraged, uncaring of how the door would swing wide and slam back from the force and threaten to unhinge. She would be there to beat him up for information, or to foil his latest evil plan that never had any real chance of success, or, lately, to ask him for help protecting Dawn. Except she never _asked_, not Spike, because she didn't consider him an equal; she _demanded_, his dusty end understood between them to be the alternative to his compliance. After all, manners were wasted on monsters like him. Not like he had feelings. He was certainly nothing to her.

This she repeated to herself like a mantra, her conviction however shaken, more so with every step she took. He was nothing to her; she'd made that abundantly clear, going as far as rescinding his long-standing invitation to her house, a gesture as real as symbolic on the heel of his love confession. Yet he had risked his unlife to protect her sister, protect her. That was not an act of a heartless monster, no matter what the Council had indoctrinated in her.

That was real-as real as the torture Glory had inflicted on him, the wounded eye swollen shut, the black-and-blue bruised body bowed in pain, the trembling, bloody lips barely able to form words. Buffy was startled by the extent of his injury as she took in his shaken form, scanning with the cold, expert eye of a warrior to assess the damage. As the Chosen One, she was used to protecting others, past hesitation even to lay down her own life to get the job done. Yet a vampire, an _unsouled_ vampire, had risked dusting for her, to protect her and hers. This, to Buffy, was new territory. _Tread carefully._

On muscle memory, her feet had carried her out of Restfield Cemetery and homebound while Buffy remained in deep thought, but the sight of her house struck her with a sense of unease. She could hear the good-natured banter between a high-pitched Dawn and the soft whispers of another female voice, Tara, probably, followed by the sound of boisterous laughter: Xander. The war with Glory raged on, but with the battle won, the celebration was taking over her house, per usual, late into the night. Pausing at the porch door, Buffy steeled herself, ran her hands under her eyes to check for any errant tears, calling forward the Buffy-can-do face, all bravery and calm with a made-to-order smile plastered on top.

The reflection of herself in the window she caught as she reached for the doorknob sent a chill down her spine: an unkind reminder that determined to get the truth about Glory's abduction of him out of Spike, she had switched clothes with the robot, all feminine pink and soft flounce and ridiculous charm. A poor imitation, she had insisted, and not just on account of the eyeroll-worthy outfit, because what else could it be, that summation of pre-programmed metal and disgust, when the genuine article was full of love, _she_ was full of love, her humanity surely shining through, blinding, brighter than fire-wasn't that what the First Slayer, her Spirit Guide had said? Maybe her blinding love momentarily blinded her friends, if they couldn't tell her apart from a stupid robotic substitute. Staring at her own slipping plastic smile in the reflection, Buffy insisted, "I'm full of love. I'm full of…"

Oh, but she knew. She knew because she had seen, the looks on their faces turning to fear, the flow of easy conversation grinding to a halt, the smiles and laughter swept away by a hurricane of dread. She knew because she had lived it, though it killed her every time, being always the center of attention and trepidation, never the life of the party but the eye of the storm, the killjoy ceasing a much-needed reprieve when her friends and family were just seizing the day, living, the way humans do, the best they could, around her orbit of chaos.

When had it happened? When did coming home, to her own house, become like an act of intrusion, of betrayal, even, of the closest and dearest she had, her "ties to this world", as Spike had called them? Being the Slayer was never a matter of choice, but as she forged a shield of protection around them (a labor of _love,_ _she_ would call it), did she also erect a wall around her heart? "Safe as houses," Spike would say. What did that mean anyway, and why was she quoting the bleached undead?

Let them have their party then, in peace, just for tonight, soldiers at ease in the absence of their general, whose shoulders were heavy with the loss from the battle, burdened by the very real potential of defeat on the horizon. Let them have their party; she could not.

Instead, she returned to Restfield after a short detour to Willy's, her steps sure with new-found resolve and purpose. Willy had first laughed hysterically, then frozen with fear, as Buffy asked for two quarts of blood. The Slayer buying _human_ blood? Got to be a trick. It was only when Buffy accompanied that with a punch to the face and a threat to keep it down that Willy snapped out of it, complied, quickly and covertly. Now Buffy carried the containers of blood across Spike's threshold.

A quick panoramic survey of the upper level of the dark, damp crypt revealed it to be empty. Shifting the cold slab with the measured strength of the Slayer, she descended the ladder to the lower level. There she found him, lying face down on his bed at an angle, sans clothing, arms and legs akimbo, pale and blood-caked and unmoving, like a corpse dumped in a hurry, like the corpse he was.

Buffy shivered.

"Spike." Her voice came out raspy and low, unintentionally sexy. The body in question did not budge. She sat down at the edge of the bed, cleared her throat, and tried again.

Still nothing. _What if he was-_

Panicked, she grabbed his shoulders and gave them a good shake. "Spike!"

"Wha?" Spike turned around with a jolt and tried to sit up, only to collapse on his back and start a coughing fit. The rapid, chesty sounds echoed painfully in the chamber. "Buffy, luv! You're..." He blinked several times, mouth open, unable to go on.

She waited for him to finish, her eyes taking in the damage marking his body with expert efficiency: angry welts around the neck, a nasty gash high on the chest, bruises and cuts all over, all the way down to… She forced herself to look away-out of modesty, naturally, and definitely not because of the lump rapidly forming in her throat and the strange sudden tightness in her chest-then held up one of the containers. "You need to eat."

Eyes, uncertain, found hers, and lingered, searching. The intensity burned her. He shifted onto his elbows, leaning back, then pulled the blood-stained bedsheets up to his hips and watched her, head cocked in that special Spike fashion, while she unlidded the brimming plastic container and offered again, this time with her eyebrows raised. Words were of the bad. Actions, actions she was good at.

Spike let out a breath, a half laugh threatening to turn into a cough. "Well, well." He'd recovered his bravado at least. He took the container inches from his face. "Never thought I'd see the day. The Slayer feeding a _vampire_."

A long gulp while she watched, then he pulled back, eyes closed, savoring. _Human_ blood. "Oh, honey, you shouldn't have."

"I should," Buffy insisted with calm and determination. _No backing off now._ Swiftly, she pulled a dagger from her waistband and-did Spike just flinch out of the corner of her eye?-before she could change her mind, brought it across her wrist. She rested the dagger on the nightstand, its job done. A crimson gush spattered into the container in Spike's hands. "This, I shouldn't have."

"Are you completely out of your mind?" His voice an octave higher in alarm, Spike leapt up, or tried to, anyway, almost upending the precious blood. His hand shot out to clamp tightly around her wrist, just above the cut, to staunch the blood flow. Only Buffy gently pried his fingers loose, then weaved her own around them.

"My mind is clear. Like I said, what you did for me, for Dawn… I take care of my family and friends. I don't abandon my own."

It took a beat for the significance of her remarks to sink in. "Oh, Buffy…" He looked down at their clasped hands, then flexed his fingers around hers, utterly entranced. "Won't let you down, pet. Can promise you that."

"I know." She gave him a tentative smile, one he returned tenfold, beaming.

He shook his head and leaned into propped up pillows. "No, you don't, luv. All of my unlife, I've tried to be bad. Some would say I succeeded, monster that I am."

Buffy recalled the long rap sheet Giles had recited from the Council's Records relevant to William the Bloody, to the Scourge of Europe: carnage and bloodbath and horror. She thought about the old Spike she knew well, the evil one who had come to town to bag his third Slayer, not that long ago.

Spike continued, "Some would say I wasn't bad enough, wasn't a proper vampire." He sighed, setting down the blood, and Buffy thought of Drusilla, still out there somewhere, killing. "But you, Slayer, _Buffy_..." He reached for her injured hand again, and this time, she let him. His voice grew fervent, "Only _you_'ve ever seen the _good_ in me-just the sliver of it, and yet...it's enough for you to give these old bones a chance to redeem themselves." He snickered, "Enough for you to give a vampire hope that he might just, after"-he looked up at the ceiling-"a century and a half of living as a simpering fool and unliving as a mindless demon, finally be a man."

Their eyes met again. Buffy's vision blurred.

"Hey, now, none of that." Spike lifted away her tears with a hooked finger, and Buffy realized that she'd been crying. "Fact is, pet, soon as I reckoned I could be of use to you, I been hellbent on trying my bestest anyway, though I might never be a total whitehat."

_Who knew Spike could be so...insightful, and tender, and a speechifying genius!_ Buffy looked down, her emotions all a tangle. "I know you're a fighter, Spike. Right now, you need to heal. This special delivery from Willy's is a one-time deal," she felt compelled to clarify. "All the butcher shops that sell blood close at sundown, and..."

Spike was now cradling her arm, trailing kisses around her wrist. "And…" she started again, only to find speech beyond her mental capacity.

Without taking his eyes off of her, he was now licking and sucking at the cut, sealing it, salving it. _Oooh, vampire tongue...cool and wet and heh, tickles like a...tickling thing._ Despite the room temperature kisses, Buffy felt the heat rise up to her cheeks. "What are you…?" she finally got out, her voice a mere whisper.

"Vampire saliva heals wounds, luv." Spike purred-_purred?_-in between kisses. "Din't you know? A bit like Slayer blood in that regard. There, all better now."

Pulling her arm out of Spike's reverent hold, Buffy ran a thumb over the spot on her inner wrist. Only a thin line remained of the clean cut. Slayer healing would take care of the rest. Might not even leave a tell-tale scar. _Like it never happened._

"That was a stupid thing to do, Buffy." Chin up, head tilted, Spike regarded the self-inflicted wound, then squinted at Buffy. "Won't have you bleed for the likes of me," he amended in a murmur, "not worth it."

"The...the Buffy blood is a one-time deal too. Strictly limited time offer." She tried to lighten the mood. There was too much reverence going on. "No refunds given. Operators are _not_ standing by." _Okay, Buffy, stop babbling._ Deciding she was done with words, she simply reached for his hand, pressed the container of blood to his lips, and closed his fingers around the curved surface.

"Drink up. Before it gets all congealed, and gross...er."

"Your wish is my command, Slayer," said Spike, then downed the blood in three big gulps. He let out a satisfying sigh, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Buffy reached for the empty container in Spike's hand to swap with the second, full one. Spike waved it away.

"This'll do nicely for now, pet. Besides," he smacked his lips, "would like to keep the taste of you on my lips a little longer." Eyes closed, he inhaled noisily. "It's like the finest wine, rich and potent, with a hint of-"

"Eww, Spike, gross!" She stood up in a huff.

Spike smirked, sat up straighter, and ran a hand down his bare chest. _Oh my God, naked Spike!_ Buffy looked away, uncomfortable.

"Was a compliment, Slayer." He looked every bit satisfied with himself, clearly feeling better.

"Not flattering!" She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help stealing a glance at Spike. She had to admit the potency part. Spike was healing right before her eyes, the cuts mending, the bruises a shade lighter, a bit of color returning to his incredibly chiseled cheeks…

"All the same. 'Preciate it, luv." He looked at her, sincere and-_oh, God, it's back_-reverent. She had to get out of here.

With a nod, she made for the ladder. Three rungs up, she turned her head, enough to meet his gaze. "Get some rest, Spike."

It wasn't until she reached the upper level of the crypt, about to slide the slab back in place, that she heard his soft response.

"Be seeing you, Buffy."

~ The End ~


End file.
